We set off from Visby in high spirits, the sat nav promising a straightforward half-hour drive to our little house in Vaestergarn. Halfway there I decided the directions on my phone looked far too simple, so I took what I thought was a clever shortcut down a gravel track. Ten minutes later we were stuck behind a herd of sheep that clearly had no interest in moving. By the time we reversed out and found the proper road again, we were both laughing so hard the sat nav had given up on us.

The house itself sat just a short walk from the sea, a neat white building with a wooden deck that caught the afternoon sun. We arrived a bit later than planned, yet the light was still warm and the air smelled of salt and cut grass. Inside, everything felt calm and ready: a small kitchen stocked with coffee, a living room with a squashy sofa, and upstairs a bedroom whose window framed nothing but sky and fields. We unpacked in that unhurried way holidays allow, leaving bags half open while we hunted for mugs.

The next morning we woke to sunlight already sliding across the floorboards. There was no rush to be anywhere. We carried our books onto the deck, made coffee twice because the first cups went cold while we watched a tractor crawl along the distant road, and simply sat. Later we wandered down to the little harbour, bought fresh bread from the bakery and ate it on a bench overlooking the water. Children were learning to sail; their laughter carried on the breeze and mixed with the clink of rigging.

By the third day we had perfected the art of doing very little. Mornings began with slow walks along the shoreline, collecting the odd shell without any plan to keep them. Afternoons drifted between the deck and the garden chairs, chapters of our books punctuated by short naps or another pot of coffee. The village shop was only five minutes away on foot, so we never felt cut off, yet the quiet felt complete. Evenings we cooked simple meals and ate outside until the midges appeared, then moved indoors to finish the day with the windows open.

I had arrived with a mental list of things I ought to see and do, but it shrank with every sunny hour. Instead of ticking boxes I found myself content just to watch the light change on the fields and listen to the occasional car pass on the main road. There was a gentle guilt at first, the feeling that proper holidays should involve more activity, yet it faded quickly. By the end of the week the biggest decision each day was whether to sit in the sun or move the chair two feet into the shade.